The opulent silence of his acquired residence was a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of the council chamber that still reverberated in his mind. He had not returned to the Phoenix manor. The message from his so-called father had been delivered not in person, not even by a trusted retainer, but through the ubiquitous, whispering gossip networks of the Underworld, a calculated, public insult. Lord Phoenix had officially named Riser Phoenix as the next heir. The decree, broadcast across the demonic equivalent of social channels and formal missives, cited his youthful inexperience and a perceived lack of judicious temperament necessary for stable leadership. The conclusion was as blunt as it was damning. He was declared fundamentally unfit to be heir. The estate he had grown up in, a place that had never felt like home, was now explicitly deemed a temporary residence for him, its occupancy granted out of strained courtesy rather than birthright.
Alone in his study, a room that reflected his own pragmatic and severe nature, all sharp angles, shelves of tactical treatises and magical theory, and devoid of sentimental clutter, he stood before a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the shimmering, chaotic skyline of the demon capital. He was a statue of contained fury. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, were the only outward sign of the maelstrom within. The political move was transparent. Lord Phoenix, ever the coward, was cutting his losses. He saw him not as a son to be proud of, but as a rogue weapon that had misfired, threatening to blow up in the armory of the Phoenix clan's reputation. By elevating Riser, a devil of predictable mediocrity and boundless vanity, Lord Phoenix was reasserting a desire for control, for a puppet whose strings he could still pull. The humiliation was not in the loss of a title he never wanted, but in the brazenness of the dismissal, the attempt to publicly neuter him.
The door to his study opened without the formality of a knock, a privilege extended to a single individual. The subtle shift in the room's energy, a calming, steady presence that seemed to absorb the chaotic frequencies of his anger, announced her arrival before she even spoke. He did not turn.
"I like this look of you more," murmured Kagaya Oktusuku, his Mutated Queen. Her voice was a low, melodic contrast to the silent scream of his rage.
He did not say anything. He did not need to. Her words were not a commentary on his physical form, which remained unchanged. They were an acknowledgment of the shattered facade. The polished, obedient veneer of the perfect Phoenix heir was gone, stripped away by the events in the council chamber and the subsequent decree. What was left was the raw, unvarnished truth of him, the cold intellect, the simmering power, the ruthless ambition, the profound, isolating anger. This was the core of him that she, and the rest of his peerage, had sworn to follow. Not the heir playing a part in a gilded cage.
She did not approach him, did not offer empty platitudes. She simply stood near the doorway, a silent sentinel in the dim light. Her presence was a language they both understood. I am here. The mask is off. Now we proceed as we truly are. The quiet stretched, comfortable and profound, a shared space where strategies were born from the ashes of expectation.
Soon, the appointed time for the Rating Game arrived, cutting short the period of simmering contemplation. The air outside the grand coliseum was thick with palpable anticipation, a festival atmosphere laced with the metallic tang of bloodsport and high-stakes politics. When he arrived with his small, elite entourage, Tobirama a step behind and to his right, Hawkeye a shadow melding with the crowds, Kagaya having departed on another task, the murmuring of the crowd crescendoed into a wave of open staring and hushed speculation. The stands were a kaleidoscope of demonic society. Lesser nobles, wealthy merchants, powerful reincarnated devils from various factions, all drawn by the scandalous rumors of the previous day's confrontation and the shocking disinheritance.
His sharp eyes scanned the VIP sections. He saw Rias Gremory there, her crimson hair a banner amidst the throng. Her expression was a complex tapestry of curiosity, concern, and a flicker of something like solidarity. She, too, understood the burden of familial expectation. Notably, Issei Hyoudou was absent. The timeline had been irrevocably altered. The catalyst of the original events, the Red Dragon Emperor, was not yet in the picture, his absence a silent testament to the new path he was forging.
And then there was Zekram Bael. The ancient king was present, enthroned in a secluded, opulent balcony that overlooked the entire arena, a position that spoke of supreme authority. His retinue was tellingly small and exclusive. Only the current patriarchs and matriarchs of the other Great Clans were in attendance with him and their wives. This was not a public spectacle for them. It was a private viewing of a particularly interesting gladiatorial match, a shared observation of a potential new asset or threat. The air in that box was thick with unspoken alliances and centuries-old rivalries.
As he moved with deliberate purpose toward the combatants' preparation tunnel, a voice, aged like fine whiskey yet sharp as a honed razor, cut through the ambient noise, aimed directly at him. It was the father of the current Lord Bael, Zekram's son, a devil whose eyes had witnessed millennia and perceived depths most could not.
"Why do you cloak your true self, boy. That transformation magic is a shroud unworthy of the power you wield," the elder Bael stated, his head tilted in genuine, piercing curiosity. It was not an accusation, but a question posed from one power source to another.
He actually paused, a flicker of genuine, unguarded surprise breaking through his impassive mask for a fraction of a second before his defenses slammed back into place. No one, not his tutors, not his so-called father, not even the Satans, had ever perceived the immensely complex illusion he had maintained since childhood. Lord Phoenix, his father, swiveled his head, his gaze darting between the elder Bael and him, and his expression curdled into something profoundly ugly, a mixture of dawning horror, fury, and exposed deceit.
Beside him, his mother, a woman whose beauty was forever tinged with a deep, silent sorrow, paled. Her hands, clutched in her lap, trembled. "Father, please, I implore you," she began, her voice a fragile thread of sound, but she was instantly interrupted by him.
The game was over. The truth demanded its due. With a dismissive flick of his will, like shedding a heavy, ill-fitting coat, he released the intricate weave of transformation magic. The change was instantaneous and visually stunning. His hair, once a bright, attention-seeking Phoenix blond, darkened and deepened into a shade of black as the void between stars. His eyes, previously a calculated mimicry of his nominal father's sky blue, shifted into a piercing, intense royal purple that seemed to crackle with latent authority.
A wave of audible, shocked gasps swept through the privileged section. Lord Bael's father looked genuinely, deeply surprised, his ancient, weathered features softening for a moment in astonishment. The reason was immediately and painfully obvious to every ancient devil present. Stripped of the Phenex disguise, his true visage was a near-perfect blend of the sharp, severe Bael features, the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the imperious set of his brow. He bore a striking, undeniable resemblance to the elder Bael himself and, more strikingly, to the legendary Zekram watching from on high. It was a face that spoke of destruction and dominion, not rebirth and showmanship.
Lord Phoenix, his nominal father, looked slightly angry, his face flushing a mottled puce, his humiliation complete and public. The carefully constructed lie of his lineage was unraveling before the entire upper echelon of devil society.
"Haha," Zekram Bael's laugh boomed from his balcony, rich with genuine amusement and a spark of triumphant insight. "I have lived eons believing that genes and power were shackles inherited purely by bloodline. But now I see. They are not shackles. They are crowns. And they float on the ether, waiting to choose who is truly worthy."
The statement was a bomb laden with hidden history, a story known only to the oldest and most cunning families. His maternal grandfather, a Phenex of a minor branch, had a notorious, passion-driven affair with a beautiful but common devil, resulting in a daughter who was a profound disappointment. She inherited neither the legendary Phenex regeneration nor any notable demonic power. That daughter, shunned and marginalized, married Lord Bael's father, and they bore a single daughter. His mother. She, too, was deemed a failure by the brutal standards of their society, possessing neither the Power of Destruction that defined the Bael bloodline she secretly carried, nor the Phenex regeneration of her nominal house. In the ruthless calculus of devil nobility, she was worthless, a political non-entity, good only for a marriage that would remove her from any line of succession and secure a minor alliance. She was wed to Lord Phoenix, a trade of a defective daughter for a connection to a Great Clan.
The true heir to the Phoenix family, his uncle, had perished valiantly during the last Great Holy War, and his father became clan head. This messy lineage also meant that Venelana Gremory, the formidable mother of Rias, was technically his aunt, though they had different mothers, a common, convoluted devil pedigree where bloodlines were more web than tree. The central, brutal truth was laid bare. In their world, if you were perceived as weak, you were worthless, to be used and discarded.
"Haha," the elder Bael chuckled again, a dark, rumbling sound of amusement. "A scion raised as a Phenex, reborn now in truth as a Bael."
Under Zekram's pointed, silent scrutiny, a gaze that felt like it could weigh a soul, his mother, her voice barely a whisper yet carrying in the stunned silence, was compelled to explain. She claimed that as he matured and his latent power surged, or rather, as his body aged and his true heritage could no longer be suppressed, his Bael blood became dominant. It manifested fully around age twelve, the same time his power famously skyrocketed to Ultimate class. That traumatic awakening was also when he learned the bitter truth of his diluted but potent bloodline from her tearful confession. She insisted the transformation magic was his own childish vanity, a preference for the familiar blond hair and blue eyes he had grown up with. It was a flimsy, pathetic excuse, a piece of convenient falsehood that every devil in the vicinity saw through instantly. The real reason, known only to him and his mother, was his father's desperate request, or more accurately, his threatening order. Lord Phoenix, ever insecure, jealous, and politically shortsighted, was terrified that the mighty Bael clan would see a potential scion in his household and take him away, a living testament to Phoenix inferiority. This very fear was also why his older brother, Rovel, the true eldest and a devil of principle, had years ago publicly renounced his heir status and left the clan, refusing to be anyone's puppet. And that was why the weak, pliable, and endlessly vain Riser was now being paraded as the heir apparent.
Zekram Bael listened to the halting, embarrassed tale, his ancient eyes glinting with knowing amusement. He looked decidedly, triumphantly happy with the revelation, as if a prized puzzle piece had finally clicked into place.
"It appears everyone is having a rather enlightening time," Sirzechs Lucifer's calm, melodious voice intervened, smoothly wresting control of the narrative and steering the focus back to the scheduled event. His presence was a cooling balm on the heated drama. "However, I believe it is now time to commence the Rating Game."
He said nothing. The familial theatrics were a tedious distraction. He was here for a singular purpose. To demonstrate absolute, overwhelming power. He would end this farce, and he would end it fast. There would be no protracted battle, no clever tactics from the opposition. Only utter domination.
"Given the unique circumstances and the demonstrated power levels," Ajuka Beelzebub announced, stepping forward, his fingers already tracing glowing data streams in the air that only he could see, "I will personally serve as the judge for this match." His genius intellect was undoubtedly keen to capture every nanosecond of data from the coming display.
The stadium announcer's magically amplified voice boomed across the arena, listing the standard rules, but the words felt hollow, a prelude to the main event. The massive, floating magical projection screen flickered to life, displaying the chosen map of the Rating Game. A vast, dilapidated urban sprawl of a ruined cityscape, perfect for ambushes and prolonged engagements, a map now utterly unsuited to what was to come. The system interface materialized before the audience, showing the chess board layout and the status of all deployed chess pieces. The icons for Sona Sitri's peerage glowed steadily. His side showed only two active pieces. His King and his Bishop. The rest were grayed out, unused. A fresh wave of murmuring swept the crowd. He was not even using his full team.
The world dissolved into the familiar nauseating swirl of teleportation magic and then reassembled. The moment they appeared on the designated battlefield, the air stale and thick with the dust of decay, he acted. He ignored the potential tactical advantages of the crumbling skyscrapers and labyrinthine streets. Such subtleties were beneath this demonstration. He immediately took to the sky, his demonic wings manifesting with a sound like unfurling leathern sails. He ascended rapidly, a dark speck against the simulated bruised-purple sky, high above the chessboard city.
Below, he could see the Sitri peerage dispersing, following what was undoubtedly a well-drilled tactical plan by their brilliant King. They were seeking cover, establishing defensive perimeters, preparing to use the environment. They were playing the game as it was designed. He was about to redesign the entire game.
He raised a single hand, palm open to the sky. The atmosphere around him began to warp and hum, the very molecules of air screaming in protest as immense, terrifyingly concentrated magical energy was drawn from his core and the environment itself. He was calling upon a spell of his own design, a masterpiece of magical engineering that was both brutal and elegant in its horrifying efficiency. It was a fusion concept, a theoretical framework brought to terrifying life, inspired by quirks from a forgotten world but forged in the crucible of his own demonic power. A brutal, seamless synergy of Half-Cold Half-Hot and Explosion.
The spell's function was horrifyingly simple in its tri-phase execution, a testament to efficient destruction. Firstly, upon impact, the spell's core would rupture, releasing a concussive, spherical blast of raw, uncontrolled magical force designed to pulverize matter and outright kill anyone without sufficient, ultimate-class durability. Secondly, nanoseconds after the initial blast, for those who somehow survived the kinetic onslaught, a secondary wave would trigger, a sun-hot wave of all-consuming fire that would erupt from the epicenter, incinerating flesh, metal, and stone, turning the area into a lake of plasma. Thirdly, and most cruelly, as the fire reached its maximum thermal bloom, the final phase would activate. Where the fire had scorched the earth, a wave of absolute zero ice would instantly manifest, a thermodynamic paradox made real. It would either flash-freeze and shatter any surviving organisms at a cellular level or trap them in an immense, unbreakable glacial tomb, a monument to their defeat. It was a perfect, inescapable spell of total annihilation, leaving no room for recovery or counter-play.
When the spell was first released from his palm, it seemed deceptively benign, almost pathetic. A mere flickering ember, a tiny orange spark that drifted lazily, almost gently, toward the city center where Sona and her peerage had concentrated. It moved with a slow, inevitable grace.
But Sona Sitri, a brilliant tactician and sensor, sensed the unimaginable, reality-bending danger condensed within that insignificant speck of light. Her eyes widened behind her glasses, her blood running cold. Her analytical mind computed the energy readings, and they were off every scale. "Barrier. Maximum output. Combine everything. Now," she screamed, her voice cracking with a fear she had never known. To their absolute credit, her peerage reacted with drilled precision, overcoming their own terror. They converged, their hands raised, pouring every ounce of their collective power, their very life force, into a single, combined defensive shield. A glowing, multi-layered hexagonal dome of protective energy sprang to life around them, their only hope against the descending oblivion.
What happened next was shocking in its violence and totality. The sequence unfolded exactly as he had coldly designed. The ember touched the apex of the magical dome. For a heartbeat, nothing. Then, reality broke.
A deafening, spherical explosion of pure concussive force slammed into the barrier. The sound was not heard but felt, a physical pressure that hit the stadium's observational barriers and made them visibly shudder. The Sitri's combined shield, a defense that could likely withstand a direct hit from a mountain, cracked like glass under a hammer, a web of fractures spreading instantly across its surface. The shockwave radiated outward, not as a wave but as a sphere of nothingness, pulverizing the surrounding city blocks into fine, atomized dust, erasing them from the map in a microsecond.
Before the stunned peerage could even gasp from the impact, the fire came. It was not flame. It was a sun-born hellstorm. It erupted from the point of impact, not spreading but consuming, instantly engulfing the failing shield and turning the ground beneath and for a quarter-mile around into a swirling, bubbling lake of molten glass and vaporized steel. The barrier held, but just barely, flickering precariously, its light dimming under the incandescent fury. The heat radiated through the magical field, scorching the skin and lungs of the devils within.
Then, as the fire vanished with the same suddenness it appeared, the ice came. Not a gentle frost or a blizzard, but a glacial tidal wave of impossible physics. It erupted from the molten ground, the very heat fueling its paradoxical creation. It climbed over the magical dome with the speed of a thought, not covering it but crushing down upon it with the weight of a glacier, seeking to implode the shield and freeze its contents into a single, frozen monument. The air itself screamed with the violent, impossible shift in temperature.
The watching crowd was a symphony of stunned silence, followed by a cacophony of shouted exclamations. Zekram Bael lunged forward in his seat, gripping the balcony railing, his earlier amusement replaced by intense, razor-sharp interest. This was not mere brute force. This was genius-level spell construction, a work of art written in the language of annihilation. He was burning with an inquisitive desire to dissect its principles, to understand the mind that could conceive such a beautifully horrific thing. The Satans' reactions were a mix of professional, awestruck appraisal and deep, unsettling concern. Sirzechs's smile was gone, replaced by solemn analysis. Ajuka's fingers flew through the air, capturing data at an insane rate. Serafall's face was pale.